


On the Inside

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, F/M, Handcuffs, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn’t surprised, not really, when he grasps onto his dick, and his mind jumps to being on his knees in front of Abaddon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm, I never had any intention of writing het ever, but then Abaddon happened, and she’s smoking. So Yeah.

Dean watches Sam, dressed in loose sweatpants and a tee-shirt brush the hair out of his eyes and amble down the corridor to his room with a soft “Night, Dean.” Dean holds up his glass in salute, and Sam shakes his head. 

The sound of the door closing still startles Dean. He hates having separate rooms. It’s too hard to sleep without watching Sam’s chest move rhythmically; the faint sound of exhaled air coming out of his nose.

Dean wonders what Ezekiel does inside Sam when his brother’s resting; angels don’t sleep after all.

Dean tracks the second hand as it moves closer to taking away another minute of his life, and shifts restlessly in his seat. In all honesty, he’d never thought he’d make it this far.  
He knows what it feels like to have his heart electrocuted, to take a bullet straight through his chest point blank, to have limbs ripped off by hellhounds, and to have his brother snap his neck. Those are only a few highlights of his experiences with death; the act, not the reaper himself.

Dean tilts back his head and allows the whiskey to burn down his throat, creating a warm sensation as it slides through his body. He’s still off balance from his encounter with Ezekiel earlier. He knows both him and Sam wouldn’t be here, safe in the bunker, if it hadn’t been for the angel in Sam. Sam would be dead, this time for real, and he’d be locked up with Abaddon. 

She said she’d break his neck quickly if he gave up Crowley, but they both knew that was a blatant lie. Her eyes had lit up when she had said _“I’ve loved this body since the moment I first saw it.”_

The thought sends a shiver through Dean’s extremities, and he looks down to see all of arm hairs standing on edge. Dean decides on a hot shower before hitting the memory foam. He needs to feel cleansed.

Dean steps out of his clothing methodically. Shirt, jeans, socks, briefs, until he is standing naked in front of the mirror. He does a quick assessment of his body, and decides when him and Sam wake up first thing tomorrow, they’re starting a new training regime. 

Driving, eating, and hunting don’t always leave time for the sparring and running Dad had taught them. Dean notices that while his muscles are still firm under his finger tips, they don’t quite bulge anymore. He can’t even remember the last time he ran ten miles. He turns on the water all the way to hot, doesn’t even touch the knob for cold, and steps in.

He uses the same generic brand of soap in the bunker that he does on the road—it’s strong enough to wash away the lingering scents of decaying organs and accelerant. He works relentlessly to scrub the dead skin off his body, but when he gets to his cock the rough action makes it perk up. 

Dean doesn’t really feel in the mood, he hasn’t in a long time if he’s being honest. His vault of mental porn has steadily dried up over the last few years. He left Cassie for Sam, Jo’s dead, he wiped Lisa’s memory of him, and Sam’s been a wreck—he’s been the devil, had no soul, experienced a psychiatric breakdown, and now has an angel for a co-pilot. It’s enough to make anyone soft. 

There’s a steady ache in his balls though, and Dean isn’t surprised, not really, when he grasps onto his dick, and his mind jumps to being on his knees in front of Abaddon. He lets his guilt wash down the drain, focuses on red manicured fingernails, and urges his dick to fill out a little more.

 

Dean likes the way Abaddon pulls his short hair back. He likes the sting, accompanied by the curled red hair and lips of her vessel. Dean’s always appreciated physical beauty in any form, and Abaddon’s choice of black accentuates her pale skin and light blue-grey eyes. Every word, every movement she makes screams passion to him. Her pure devotion to ruling hell lights a spark he’d long since thought absent, deep inside his veins. 

_“You’re so obedient. And suicidally stupid. I like too,”_ Abaddon says in a soft, breathy voice. Dean doesn’t need to hide or to deny it; she already knows all of his sins.

“I know you like being on your knees, Dean,” She says, and he’s caught off guard as she tugs his hair back further, barring his throat. She runs a single red nail over each ring of cartilage on his neck. 

“I’ll have to see what I can do about keeping you like this,” Abaddon says with a smile.

He’s too busy looking into her currently human eyes, which scream lust in equal proportion to torture that he doesn’t notice her locking him into handcuffs until it’s too late.   
“That’s better. Who’s my good boy?” She asks, teasing slightly as she pulls his chin down to urge him to open his mouth. When he does, she slides two fingers in. He works his tongue around both of them, enjoying the feel of his lips around her skin, pressing down with his teeth enough to know that she’ll have crescent indents on both digits when she pulls out.

Abaddon leans forward, hair falling around her face, lips pressed up against his ear to whisper “You kiss like a girl, Dean Winchester.” 

Then he’s shoved forward, and he has to focus on holding his weight between his hands which are too close together to be comfortable. Dean feels Abaddon unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down until they pool loosely around his knees. Then he’s being spread open with nails digging into both sides of his ass. He knows he’ll have red marks later, a remembrance of Abaddon’s favorite color.

“Beautiful, Dean. Just wished you had saved it for me, instead of giving it up for your brother,” she taunts, “But I guess sometimes a girl can’t have it all.”

With that last sentiment, she plunges both fingers into him, and he gasps at the intrusion; the first sound he’s made since she pinned him.

“Ahh, there we go, Dean. Don’t be too loud though. Baby brother might hear you.”

She runs her other hand up his taught stomach, until she finds one of his nipples. She pinches hard at the same time she presses into his prostate.

Dean screams. His body’s on overload, because no one’s ever made him feel this way. He can’t tell pain from pleasure as she mercilessly jabs her fingers inside of him, making his cock start dripping onto the light trail of dusky red pubic hair leading up to his navel. 

“There we go, Dean, that’s it. You know, you look so pretty strung out on all fours just for me.”

Dean can’t tell how long it’s been, only that he explode if he doesn’t come soon.

“Can you ask, Dean. Ask what you want a girl to do.”

“Please,” he whimpers, “please.”

His hips keep rolling forward, finding no friction, only air.

“That isn’t the word I want to hear, Dean.”

He knows he shouldn’t, but his body has taken control, overriding his brain with the need to get off.

“Yes,” he grunts out softly.

He feels the pain of a knife, slashing directly through his anti-possession tattoo. His blood seeps onto the knife, but Abaddon’s still at his back, still feeling up his insides, and he feels the sudden sensation of the need to urinate.

“Say it again, Dean.”

“Yes…just yes,” he says more forcefully this time. He can feel Abaddon smile into his back. 

Then she moves the knife down and he feels the spine of the knife, warm with the heat of his own blood travel up the underside of his cock. She spends a moment worrying it against the nerves just underneath the head, and then he’s coming, harder than he has in years.

 

Dean leans back against the tile wall of the shower, knees slightly bent, catching his breath. He turns on the cold water, and shivers as guilt floods back into his bones. 

Dean watches the water carry his each drop of his come, his ability to create life, off his body and down the drain.


End file.
